


no way of turning the tide

by jk_rockin



Series: this whole affair is an outrage [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Crying, Gun Kink, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: “It is almost a pity Christine cannot see you now,” said Erik, trailing the barrel of the pistol down Raoul’s cheek. “I can almost see why she might favour you- you truly are beautiful like this.”Raoul glared up at him. He tried to speak, but all that came out around the cravat stuffed into his mouth were garbled grunts. Erik did not bother to ask him to clarify; doubtless it was just another childish threat, and he had heard quite enough of those while securing the Vicomte in his current position. Capture really did suit him. Kneeling, hands bound behind his back with the scraps of his shirt, he made quite a picture.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: this whole affair is an outrage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750477
Comments: 25
Kudos: 84





	no way of turning the tide

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. After years of relative chill about Phantom, I have been jabbed in the feelings by watching the Albert Hall stream, and now I'm writing fic? Apparently? Here's some short nasty filth, anyway.
> 
> Title from 'Notes', from Phantom of the Opera. When is this set? What is the context? ~It is a mystery~. Let me know if I haven't tagged for something and you wish I had.

“It is almost a pity Christine cannot see you now,” said Erik, trailing the barrel of the pistol down Raoul’s cheek. “I can almost see why she might favour you- you truly are beautiful like this.”

Raoul glared up at him. He tried to speak, but all that came out around the cravat stuffed into his mouth were garbled grunts. Erik did not bother to ask him to clarify; doubtless it was just another childish threat, and he had heard quite enough of those while securing the Vicomte in his current position. Capture really did suit him. Kneeling, hands bound behind his back with the scraps of his shirt, he made quite a picture.

“Has Christine ever done anything like this for you?” asked Erik, as he drew the gun down Raoul’s chest. “I am not so foolish as to believe she has been faithful to me, and there are certainly prop guns to be had backstage in an opera house.”

Raoul grunted again. Leaning down, Erik allowed the edge of his mask to scrape against Raoul’s cheek, breath fanning over Raoul’s exposed throat. “Or perhaps a prop gun would not be enough for Monsieur le Vicomte,” he murmured, relishing the shiver than ran through Raoul when he spoke. “Does Christine know what you are? Does she know how this perfect body of yours responds to mortal danger?”

Turning his head, Raoul tried to shuffle backwards, but Erik’s unoccupied hand held him still. Bless him, he did try very hard to conceal the effect Erik’s rough treatment had had on him, but like this, splayed out, the evidence between his thighs was comically obvious. He had squeezed his eyes shut tight, like a child wishing away a nightmare, and so did not see Erik move. By the time Raoul realised what was going on, it was too late; Erik had opened his breeches and pushed them down, and his cock, red and hot with blood, curved upwards towards his belly.

Erik laughed. “What would she say, do you think? Do you think she would admire you now, so inflamed, on your knees for a monster?”

Another pained sound came from behind the makeshift gag, and Raoul's eyes flew open. Those eyes burned with fury and humiliation, but no emotion could conceal the direction of his gaze towards Erik’s own visible erection. “Ah,” said Erik. “The Vicomte assumes he knows the uses I intend to put him to.”

In a swift, coordinated motion, Erik dragged Raoul forward by the neck, kicking his knees out from under him. While not precisely an artistic demonstration of skill, in a matter of moments he had the Vicomte bent forward beneath his hand, shoulders and face pressed to the floor, bare posterior exposed. Ignoring Raoul’s grunts of discomfort, Erik ran the barrel of the gun down the arch of his spine, letting him feel the cool metal of its body against his flushed skin, and brought it to rest at the dip just above his buttocks.

“The Vicomte assumes too much,” Erik snarled. “I am not like Christine. I am not so weak that I would break my vow to her for a boy like you.”

The first touch of the gun between his cheeks made Raoul jerk beneath him. He had turned his head to avoid having it scraped raw against the rough stone floor- would that not be a delicious irony, Christine’s heroic rescuer having his lovely face destroyed?- and his panic was now quite visible on his face. Erik laughed again, running the barrel of the gun up the underside of Raoul’s cock, relishing his twitches and jerks.

“Oh, come now, monsieur, don’t be shy,” said Erik. “You were a nautical man, were you not? Surely this is not the first time another man has pressed his pistol here.”

Erik pressed Raoul’s cheeks apart with his fingers, and was rewarded with a pained whine, almost musical in quality. Sweet, almost, how his eyes begged Erik to stop, especially in counterpoint to the subtle movements of his body, pressing up and into Erik’s touch.

He had oiled the pistol just this morning, and still had the oil in his pocket; it was a simple matter to spread a little extra on the barrel. There was very little resistance as Erik pressed the muzzle in and further in, though Raoul snarled through the gag in his mouth.

“You will not even pretend to struggle, monsieur le Vicomte?” Erik said, voice light and mocking as a flirting chorus girl. “That is not sporting of you, sir. You will concede I have not been unreasonable; I have not even cocked the gun.” Raoul jolted. Erik took a long moment to slide the barrel in and out a few times, enjoying how Raoul squirmed, and how his pink, furled entrance fluttered around the intrusion. “Or is that the problem? Perhaps I have made you too comfortable.”

Snarls turned to whines as Erik shifted the pistol from his right hand to his left, and ran his thumb over Raoul’s testes. Another of those full-body shivers overtook Raoul, progressing to shudders as Erik’s fingers encircled his sack. Beneath his hand, Raoul’s prick was as rampant as ever, pearls of fluid dripping from the tip onto the floor, but Erik did not touch it. Somehow that seemed like cheating. Instead, he tightened his grip upon Raoul’s balls, listening to the pitch of the sounds he made change as the pressure increased.

Raoul’s erection did not flag. His hips flexed, and the noises he made grew louder and more desperate. “Filthy boy,” Erik sneered. “You claim you love Christine, but look at you now. You would dare to sully my angel with your depravity? Will she still want you, do you think, brought low so easily?”

Raoul did not audibly respond. He was caught up in Erik’s rhythm, pressure and desperation for release consuming him. Erik leaned down to murmur in his ear once more. “Perhaps I should simply put you out of your misery,” he said, and with his thumb he cocked back the hammer of the pistol.

The effect was instantaneous. At the sound of the hammer, Raoul’s body tensed, and he came, prick spurting onto the floor, a heartbroken wail muffled by the silk in his mouth.

Erik withdrew the gun. He uncocked it, wiped off the barrel on the ruins of Raoul’s clothing, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. Raoul’s testes he released last; the boy jerked and whimpered as he did so, and sagged bonelessly against Erik, all strength fled.

Curling his lip, Erik shoved him off, sending Raoul sprawling onto his side, and got to his feet. He had managed to avoid being soiled with Raoul’s spendings, and had only a little dirt on his knees for his trouble. In comparison, the Vicomte looked thoroughly debauched; smeared in his own fluids, face reddened and dirty from being pressed to the ground, and wet with unheeded tears.

Erik smiled at his handiwork. “A pretty picture, monsieur le Vicomte,” he said. “One of my finest stagings yet, I think.”

Raoul attempted to speak, but, naturally, could not. He was still crying.

“It should not take them too long to find you,” said Erik. He spun on his heel, and, as jauntily as a man might with a raging erection between his legs, began to walk away. “Do give my regards to Miss Daaé, and remind her of her obligations to me.”

The sound of Raoul’s sobs followed him out of the room.


End file.
